Cut and dried

Everything in life is about managing risk. True fact—we do it everyday. Crossing the street. Flying across country. Eating sushi. Driving at rush hour. It's all a calculated roll of the dice on something not going wrong.

Up until last Saturday, I would've thought haircuts don't really qualify for that category. Come to find out I was wrong.

I usually get my haircut with Gene. He's awesome. He cuts with precision, always mindful of what I'm going for. What I'm usually going for is a cut that makes me look 40 lbs. thinner and more like George Clooney. Keep hope alive.

The point is, I have a great stylist I trust and love. The problem is, a lot of other people love him too. He's booked weeks and even months in advance with his regular customers. And even though I'm one of them, I'm not someone who can schedule haircuts every four or six weeks. It doesn't work like that for me. One day my silver locks will be looking fabulous, then suddenly overnight they're as out of control as a Trump rally in a blue state.

And they need to be stopped just as quickly.

Here's the point: I couldn't get in to see Gene Saturday, and my hair wouldn't wait. So I opted for Plan B, and went to another barber shop where I'd never been before. My son recommended them, so I figured, in that naive way of reasoning I have when I want to talk myself into something, he goes there, they have good reviews on Yelp, a really nice shop and do this for a living.

What could possibly go wrong?

App-hair-ently a lot (SWIDT?). Since I didn't have an appointment, I was shuffled off to the stylist who's only been there two months, doesn't have a regular clientele and gets to experiment on all the walk-ins. A fact I didn't realize until after the damage had been done.

I remember years ago when my son was five or six, we had to run to Bristol Farms market to pick up something. It was just before his bedtime, and he didn't want to go because he was in his pajamas, and he thought everyone would stare at him. Never one to miss a teachable moment, I confronted him with this cold, hard truth of life. "No one cares. In fact no one will even notice."

So I dragged him to the store in his pajamas. And no one cared.

I know in the other world, the one that doesn't revolve around me, it's same with my haircut.

Since I had it butchered, excuse me, cut on Saturday, I looked drastically different when I came into the office on Monday than when I'd left Friday. And even though I was extremely self-conscious about it, guess what? No one cared.

A couple people noticed I was much more aerodynamic moving through the halls than I'd been the week before, and mentioned how much they liked the cut. I smiled, said thanks, and retreated to my office to hate it even more.

The good news about my haircut is eventually time makes everything better. It's only a two week mistake at best. Just like my high school girlfriend.

I suppose I should actually be grateful. New customer, no appointment, unknown salon and a relatively new hire working on my hair.

It's only shear luck it didn't come out any worse.

The state of taxes - the sequel

I've spent the last three days preparing tax information for the annual meeting with my accountant, which is coming up in a week. I was all excited because I thought it'd be a fun thing to blog about. Who doesn't want to read about taxes, amirite? Then I remembered I already posted about them almost exactly three years ago, in February 2015.

Truthfully, the tax circus doesn't change much for me from year to year. The receipts, the accordion files, the Ziegenhagen system—it's the only way I know. Although the other thing I know is there's got to be a better way.

This is also the last year I'll be doing taxes the way I've been doing them, because the liar-in-chief's middle class tax scam goes into effect this year. A lot of my deductions will be going away, but on the bright side hopefully so will the shithole president. Sooner rather than later.

And when he does, I'm personally sending a nice thank you gift to Robert Mueller. But only if it's deductible.

Anyway, I don't often repost, but this one seemed rather timely. Try to read it before April 17th. Please to enjoy.

This is the second time in four years I've done a post about taxes. The last time was here.

Even though it's an annual event, and a subject everyone likes to bitch and moan about, I don't write about it every year because that way it's just a little less real.

Until April 15th. Then it's very real.

I'm fairly organized about things, which makes it easier to get ready for it. I have my friend Pam Ziegenhagen to thank for that. She probably doesn't even remember, but years ago when we worked together, she told me how she organized all her receipts in different categories in an accordion file. Then all she had to do was add up each section for tax time.

It was good advice, and I've been doing it that way my own self ever since.

But because I know I can wait until virtually the last minute and still pull it all together in about three hours if I have to, I have extra time to get my panties in a twist about getting it done. Which I always do.

I have issues. I never said I didn't.

So here's the thing - sometime in the next few days, I'll buckle down, go through my accordion file with all the past year's receipts like Pam told me, do a little addition, make a master list of totals for my accountant and be done with it.

Then, when I'm at my tax appointment with my accountant Ethan, we'll chat about all sorts of things and I'll stare at the Green Bay Packers posters he has in his office for about an hour and a half while he punches in the numbers in a way that makes everything okay.

Ethan does right by me every year, bless his little ten key.

I was going to end this post with somewhat of a reach. It was going to lead into something something Sherlock Holmes, and working purely by deduction. See what I did there?

Obviously I don't prepare nearly as well for ending my blogposts as I do for doing my taxes.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

We've (or should that be weave) all seen it by now. The video of the shithole president's hair trying to make its getaway as he boards Air Farce One (spelling intentional).

First the Emperor has no clothes. Now he has no hair.

Naturally, because the fake president is the festering pile of shit he is, we're not laughing with him. We're laughing at him. No one is uttering the phrase "That's unfortunate." or "I feel bad for him." The most telling thing about the video is how after his combover turns into a flyaway, he stops and waves at the top of the stairs as if nothing has happened.

Which is exactly the way he approaches his presidency (throwing up a little just typing "his presidency").

Here's a partial, very partial, list of the things he's done so far:

Stolen a Supreme Court seat.

Robbed the middle class with a tax reform scam.

Cost millions of voters their healthcare.

Obliterated environmental regulations.

Appointed the "best" most unqualified people he can find to his cabinet.

Got rid of net neutrality.

Reversed a rule oil companies had to report payments to foreign governments.

Cancelled a rule saying financial advisors had to act in the best interest of their clients.

Ended a rule allowing consumers to file class-action lawsuits against banks.

Repealed a rule mandating employers keep records of workplace injuries.

Repealed a ban on lead bullets.

Reduced the size of national monuments and parks.

Repealed documents defining rights of students with disabilities.

Canceled public reporting of visitors to the White House.

So much winning.

And after each deplorable act, he smiles and waves as if nothing happened. As if he had a mandate. Like he won the popular vote. After all, that's what stable genius' do.

The good news is by all indications the midterms will be the day of reckoning for this racist, traitorous idiot. And the decades long list of social and global progress he's decimating will be the same list Democrats use as a checklist to restore them one by one.

So there's reason to be slightly optimistic. Because it's my belief that with a Democrat controlled congress in November, if he isn't already removed from office or locked up by then, at least the idea of Trump finishing out his only term will be a lot less hair raising for the rest of us.

Rain on his parade

It's hard to get out of bed every day, knowing there's not a chance you'll escape the ginormous amount of monumental stupidity and ineptness being inflicted daily on our once great nation from the shithole president. Here's the latest: he wants a military parade.

Apparently Toys R Us didn't have life-size toy soldiers, so the fake president has decided to play with the real ones. Allegedly, his reason is so the American people can have the opportunity to show their appreciation for our men and women in the armed services. But back on earth, Mr. Liar Liar Pants On Fire isn't fooling anyone. We all know the real reason is so the military can show him their appreciation, salute Cadet Bone Spurs, and demonstrate their allegiance.

Maybe if just one Democrat had clapped at his state of the union address, even by mistake, we wouldn't be talking about this.

It's hard to imagine another reality-show-star-turned-politician whose ego is so big, and dick is so small, that he feels the only way to make himself feel better is by having tanks and missiles parading down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Of course, knowing what the liar-in-chief's definition of "very fine people" is, I'm sure he feels like he'd be in "good company" if he gets his way and squanders millions of taxpayer (which doesn't include him) dollars and resources on his parade. After all, it's not like that money could be used for anything else like, say, helping homeless veterans get off the streets.

His portrait, once color corrected for his skin tone which is not found in nature, would be perfectly at home in a rogues gallery of leaders who've had military parades. Besides the Charlie Chaplin impersonator at the top, look who else insisted (and in one case still insists) on having them:

In the unfortunate event this exercise in ego inflation comes to pass, which like all sane Americans I'm hoping it doesn't, I'm sure the real warriors, the brave men and women of our armed services, will approach it as professionally and effectively as they approach every mission. Which means as they march past the presidential viewing stand, they'll raise their right hands and salute the orange carpetbagger using all five fingers.

Though my guess is they'll be wanting to use just one.

His not so secret identity

He wasn't fooling anyone.

Only someone as quintessentially evil and stupid as Trump would think donning (see what I did there?) a disguise as preposterous as orange skin, yellow hair, fat face and baby hands could hide his true self.

I know I have friends who don't believe in the ongoing battle between good and evil. And if you're one of them, may I direct your attention to the state of the union speech last night.

It was a bunch of cliches that said nothing. A carefully scripted propaganda storm, directed at his base by stoking the fires of racism under the guise of patriotism.

Families who had their children murdered were paraded and exploited to make a false correlation about why the nation is safer without immigrants—by which he meant people of color—from other countries.

A confession of being a man of the people, all people, despite the fact his words and actions for the last year betray that thought, and have sewn nothing but division and invited hate.

Trump, his enabler wife, his idiot children and his oxygen-starved supporters are the embodiment of pure evil.

In this disguise, instead of waving a wand to do his deeds, his tool of choice is a pen to undo all the good his predecessor did. At least for now.

Let's hope Mueller can remove him from office before it's replaced by a button.

Hate of the union

You'll thank me later. I'm going to save you an hour of your life. Because of me, you won't have to watch the orange-faced baboon shithole president drone on in his Big Mac induced stupor as he tries to read off a teleprompter and not go off script. I'll sum it all up for you.

The state of the union is fucked.

Let's review shall we? Regardless of what his press secretary—that condescending, arrogant, lying, daughter of a fake Christian—says, the babyhands administration had everything to do with FBI deputy director Andrew McCabe retiring early. It's part of the systematic degrading of the intelligence and law enforcement community the administration claims to love and support. And it's because they're investigating obvious Russian collusion in the election.

I say obvious because just yesterday, despite rare bipartisan agreement on strengthening sanctions against Russia, Trump refused to do it. Also, Republican lackey Devin Nunes drafted a memo, with carefully curated classified information (I was going to say facts, but then I realized who I was talking about) showing alleged FBI bias in the Russia investigation. It will come as no surprise the House Intelligence Committee has voted along party lines to release the misleading memo, even though the Justice department says that would be damaging to national security. It also won't surprise you the committee refuses to release a Democratic memo answering and debunking theirs.

Let's also not forget the firing of James Comey. Or that Mr. Art Of The Deal has said all 17 intelligence agencies, who agree on Russian involvement with both him and the election, are wrong. There's also the constant accusation the entire investigation is a "witch hunt."

The question isn't what does Russia and Putin have on him. The question is what don't they have on him.

The orange menace is an on-the-record proven racist. Misogynist. Liar. White supremacist. Adulterer. Homophobe. Narcissist. Opportunist. Draft dodger. Thin-skinned baby man. Tax evader. He still has not recanted his statement that Nazis chanting "Jews will not replace us!" are "very fine people." Despite his compulsive tweeting, he hasn't managed to put one out offering condolences to the Kentucky school shooting victims and families, for fear of pissing off (and he knows a little something about pissing) the NRA, a suspected channel for Trump money laundering.

But that's just at home. When you have an assclown as big as the fake president, the vulgarity doesn't stop at our borders.

Remember the wall he talked about during the campaign, the one Mexico was going to pay for? Our dipshit president is now insisting U.S. taxpayers foot the bill. Despite the fact a wall might've been a good idea in the 18th century, with today's surveillance technology, photo drones and increased border patrol agents it's a remarkably primitive and outdated idea. My guess is he's hoping no one tells the Mexicans about ladders.

He has obliterated relationships with virtually every one of our allies, including our longest and most loyal one, Great Britain. He has lowered our standing in the world, to the point of the United States being a laughing stock and punchline for having elected him (which technically we didn't since Hillary got 3 million more votes, but that's for another post). He has the smooth, soothing, reassuring diplomatic skills of sandpaper coated in barbed wire. By shooting off his big piehole about North Korea, and weapons he knows nothing about and has no understanding of—other than thinking they make his puny dick look bigger—he has put us in the very real position of having to live with the threat of nuclear war. He has surrendered our leadership position on attacking climate change by withdrawing us from the Paris Accord. We are the only nation on earth not part of it.

There's just too much bad for one post: his taxpayer-funded golf trips. The Muslim ban. His weakening of clean air regulations (brave taking a position against clean air). Appointing people as uniquely unqualified and with as many conflicts of interest as him to cabinet-level positions. The annihilation of the public school system. Affairs with porn stars. Paying off porn stars not to talk about affairs. Leaving millions without healthcare. Eliminating net neutrality. Privatizing prisons for profit. Trying to privatize the FAA. Twitter outbursts against rap artists, Broadway shows, NFL players and Meryl Streep. Proposing a law saying restaurant owners can keep tips their employees earn. Using tonight's speech to fundraise for his re-election campaign by putting donor names onscreen (true fact).

He is a vengeful, vile, vulgar, vicious, villianous and any other derogatory word starting with "V" little man. His agenda has four missions: wipe out all trace of positive changes from Obama's legacy. Line the pockets of corporations and billionaires at the expense of the middle class. Taking a page right out of Joseph Goebbels playbook, he attempts to demean and diminish the press by calling everything they write about him he doesn't like "fake news." And use the presidency to promote his own businesses.

It is a sad, sobering, depressing time in the history of the nation. Still, if he manages to get through tonight's speech without too much improvisation, the delusional and complicit Republican congress will rattle on about how presidential he was, and how he demonstrated genuine leadership.

Maybe they'll even give him a cookie and let him stay up late.

There is a glimmer of good news. He, along with spineless Paul Ryan and ninja turtle reject Mitch McConnell, have hammered a long overdue nail in the Republican party coffin, which only bodes well for the future. Provided he doesn't get us nuked before it gets here. He has unified America and created a political consciousness that hasn't been this vocal or adamant since the '60's.

And thanks to Robert Mueller, a man Trump once considered for Secretary of State, there's no doubt he'll only be a one-term president. Or with any luck, a half-term one.

So get ready for tonight's lie-fest. The biggest one will be the first, when he comes out, waits for all the boot-licking, ass-kissing, brown-nosing Republicans to stop applauding, and then says the state of our nation is strong.

Fortunately for the country and the world, there's every indication the opposition is stronger.

Grabbing his attention

To celebrate the first anniversary of the shithole president's inauguration, millions of mostly women, together with many good men, took to the streets around the country and the world to protest virtually every wrong, misguided policy and decision the liar-in-chief has made since day one.

Which if you're keeping count would be all of them.

The beauty of these protests is we can be assured that he's watching, because chowing down Big Macs in front of the TV for hours on end seems to be what he does most days.

What I love about the march, besides the fact it's happening and so many millions are participating, are the signs. They're creative, heartfelt and on point. Or points. Whimsical to serious, humorous to straightforward, every one of them is a unifying message we all should be behind.

The energy of it all gives me, dare I say it, hope.

I took to the Google to show a few of the signs from today's marches. Some of them didn't have a date, so a few might be from last year's event. No matter. The message is the same.

I think the important thing is now that women have grabbed his attention, it's important not to let go. We all have to keep our energy and enthusiasm up because backing down is simply not an option. Not when it's our country, democracy and standing in the world—not to mention compassion and decency—at stake.

And besides, November will be here before you know it.

Down the Hatch

Orrin "Hey you kids get off my lawn!" Hatch, Utah senator for the last 1500 years, handed in his resignation from the senate today. Well, he didn't so much hand it in as cash out. As one of the liar-in-chief's main sycophants, and a major advocate, proponent and beneficiary of the recently passed billionaire tax break, Hatch stands to increase his already formidable wealth in a big way.

So as the superhero, which he is most definitely not, always says, "My job here is done."

Not a minute too soon.

The good news is with Hatch leaving the senate, the road is cleared for Mitt Romney to replace him. Now, in the past I've been somewhat harsh on old Mitt. But in light of the last election, and the dipshit currently destroying our country, democracy and every good, decent, compassionate social program and progress of the last fifty years, I'm reconsidering him in a whole new light.

And frankly, he may be more man than I initially thought (look closely—see what I did there?)

Utah isn't going to elect a democrat. It's just not going to happen. But Romney may be the next best thing, having said this about Trump:

"Here's what I know: Donald Trump is a phony, a fraud. His promises are as worthless as a degree from Trump University. He's playing members of the American public for suckers: He gets a free ride to the White House, and all we get is a lousy hat."

But wait, there's more.

"Dishonesty is Donald Trump's hallmark."

Spoken like, well, like anyone who's listened to the fake president talk for more than a minute.

I applaud Romney's take down, assessment and honest opinion of Trump. And short of a democrat getting elected (although Doug Jones in Alabama shows miracles can happen), I support Romney and hope he has the cajones to stand his ground once he's in the senate.

What makes me optimistic, a word I haven't used since January 20, 2017, is that Romney is already a billionaire. He can't be bought. And he's a strict Mormon. So I'm guessing there's not much chance he can be blackmailed (for reference see Lindsey Graham).

Although not fast enough, the midterms will eventually get here. Hopefully with them comes the sinking of this ship of fools controlling the government.

Don't let the door hit you on the way out. Goodbye Orrin Hatch.

And good riddance.

Christmas, November 2018

I know it's Christmas Eve day right now. But for me, the truth of the matter is no present I get tomorrow morning is going to be better than the one I'm expecting next November. And by the way, it's not just a present for me—it's for the world.

My hope is that the November midterm elections will restore control of the house and senate to the Democrats. Then, from net neutrality to tax cuts for billionaires to eliminating environmental controls to reducing liability for banks to the war on women, gays, minorities, immigrants, Muslims and many, many more, they can start systematically reversing every single awful, destructive, uninformed, self-serving, racist, oppressive, shitty decision the current liar-in-chief and Russian operative has made.

And they can do it the same systematic way he's tried to undo every good thing his predecessor (are you sure he can't run for a third term?) did.

While Republican dipshits who voted for a tax code that lines their pockets at the expense of the middle class will have long cashed out by then, despite what you've heard about those cuts being permanent they're not. It's only legislation, and fortunately, with the right people in office it can all be reversed with the stroke of a pen.

So, a merry Christmas to all today and tomorrow. But my hope is the real present is coming next November, which should also make it a happy new year for all.

Until then, please accept this as my little (emphasis on "little") gift to you. It's sung to the tune of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. Please to enjoy.

You better watch out

You better not cry

Better not pout

I'm telling you why

Democrats are coming to town

They're making a list

And checking it twice

They already know who's naughty and nice

Democrats are coming to town

They'll start impeachment proceedings

Like all polls say they should

They'll re-write executive orders

So they'll actually do some good

You better watch out

You better not cry

Better not pout

We're not gonna die

Democrats are coming to town

School lunch programs will be funded

Infrastructure will improve

Obamacare will save thousands of lives

Even though Republicans disapprove

They'll be draining the swamp

For real this time

Immigrants won't have any

Stupid walls to climb

Democrats are coming to town

Democrats are coming to town

Democrats are coming to town

A glimmer of it

I was a little worried this morning. I was feeling something I hadn't felt in a very long time. Since November 9, 2016 to be exact. At first I thought it might be gas, but that wasn't it. I had my flu shot, so I wasn't coming down with anything.

Then it dawned on me. It was hope.

It crept up on me right after I grabbed the clicker (you heard me) and turned on the TV. On every channel I turned to was the familiar Breaking News banner emblazoned across the screen. Only instead of being the end of a high-speed chase (I wish) or another show biz name being outed for sexual misconduct (Louis C.K., Matt Lauer and Brett Ratner walk into a bar...), it was a ray—well, alright, a glimmer, but still—of hope in the form of Michael Flynn pleading guilty to lying to the FBI.

I haven't cheered out loud for anything like that since Springsteen extended his Broadway show until June.

Of course, Flynn is the disgraced former National Security Advisor in the Trump administration (I just threw up a little writing that) who was fired after just 24 days on the job. Before that, he'd been an integral part of the vile, vulgar, racist, misogynist Trump campaign. In on every meeting and decision at the highest levels, he knows where the bodies are buried.

And he has no intention of letting his become one of them.

So, rather than roll the dice on getting charged with treason for being a spy and agent of the Turkish government, Flynn struck a plea deal with Mueller to the lesser charge of lying.

Wondering about that singing you hear? That's Flynn ratting out everyone from Kushner to Priebus to Bannon to Pence to Miller to Trump to Trump and to the other Trump.

Hope. It's a beautiful thing. Even in small doses.

As we head into the weekend, I can only wish each and every one of those traitorous dipshits is charged, then forcibly removed from the people's house. In orange jumpsuits. Leg irons. And handcuffs.

If Trump really wants to draw a big crowd, that's how he'll get one.

And all the simpering, sniveling, ass-kissing Republican cowards who were supporting him until they got their tax reform that favors millionaires and billionaires at the expense of the middle class—seriously, a deduction for private jets?—your day of reckoning isn't far behind.

Can you say midterms?

The glimmer of hope I have today is we'll be able to get back to and rebuild our democracy while there's still a shred of it left. That we can regain our standing in the world as a beacon of freedom, a nation of laws and eventually elect a leader with character, a firm moral compass, a compassionate sense of decency. Someone who will serve as an accurate and proud representation of all we truly are, and aspire to be.

I also hope he doesn't get us all killed before it happens.

Reconsidering John McCain

As I watched the 60 Minutes interview with John McCain, I felt a deep, unexpected sadness at the thought he's not going to be around. He's bravely fighting yet another battle, this time with glioblastoma—the same aggressive brain cancer that forms in the brain and spinal cord. The same cancer that took Ted Kennedy.

I suppose like a lot of people, I've gone in and out of liking and disliking McCain. But in his sunset years in the Senate, even though he hasn't always walked the walk, I find the thought of his absence painful.

I thought I'd never be able to forgive him for unleashing the political train wreck that is Sarah Palin on the world, but I have. Despite surfacing with some idiotic gibberish every once in awhile, with the exception of the occasional brief appearance on Fox News, she's long ago been relegated to a footnote, like Kato Kaelin or Ross Perot.

Like we all thought Trump would be.

The constant character trait in McCain's life has, without a doubt, been bravery. When he was shot down and held prisoner, he was tortured relentlessly. At one point, he was offered early release, which he refused. He wouldn't leave until all his fellow soldiers who'd been captured with him were freed.

He's fought endlessly and tirelessly for things in the Senate. And whether I agreed with them or not, and it was mostly not, I admired his intelligence and persistence.

Most recently, at 81, he's geared up for yet another battle. He's made himself a pariah in many dark, dusty corners of the GOP for having the unmitigated gall to do the right thing, and stand up to the most unqualified sociopath ever to hold the office of the presidency. People speculate he's doing it because at this point he's got nothing to lose, but I think it's more than that. I think it's what he genuinely believes.

Donald Trump's statement about liking heroes that weren't captured should make everyone cringe. With McCain being a genuine hero, from a military family of heroes, the statement from Trump is as vile, vulgar and uninformed as the liar making it.

The reason it angers him so deeply is that McCain has become the de facto conscience of the Republican party. His seniority gives him the gravitas, and his sense of what's right and what elected representatives are supposed to do has earned him respect from both sides of the aisle.

I have a friend who was involved at the highest levels of the McCain presidential campaign. We don't see each other often, but when we do we never talk about it, because we both know where each other stands.

I'm nothing if not vocal about my views.

But lately, I see what she saw in him.

I hope McCain beats the odds and beats his cancer. At this critical time in history, it'd be an unthinkable loss to say goodbye to one of the senate's last voices of reason.

Let's hope we don't have to for a while longer.

Fighting fire with fire and fury

I've seriously stopped counting how many ways our dipshit, liar-in-chief, fake president, and Putin's personal lapdog, is unqualified to hold the position he has. Frankly, I can't count that high. But here's a good example that happened just today: apparently he's decided to fight stupid with stupid. On learning news North Korea most likely has been able to miniaturize a nuclear warhead that can sit on top of a missile aimed at the west coast of the U.S., Trump said they'd better stop making threats or they'd face "fire and fury like the world has never known." He then followed it up with "Nyah, nyah, nyah."

I suppose there are two ways to look at this. First, Trump is smarter than any of us think, and he's speaking in language the chubby psycho with the bad haircut in North Korea understands. But more likely, he's an idiot completely ignorant of the ramifications of the sabre-rattling he's doing, trying to overcompensate for a dick he couldn't find with a flashlight and a search party, and at the same time edging us closer to nuclear conflict than we've been since the '60s.

And what does he care? He'll be holed up in his gold-leafed bomb shelter, watching Hannity on Fox News and Dancing With The Stars, complaining how unfair North Korea is being to him.

Or maybe it's just all a rouse to get Melania to finally hold hands with him (insert small hands joke here).

Regardless, this is what happens when hillbillies, greedy billionaires and spineless Republicans give nuclear codes to clowns.

At any rate, with all this going on it seemed like a good day to repost this piece, which was originally called "Gimme shelter, or not." It's a little personal plan of attack (pardon the phrase) if you will about what to do as we reach the final chapter.

Put on your sunglasses, pop open a beer, rev up the credit cards and grab that guy or gal you've been thinking about. The big bang is getting serious. Please to enjoy.

Back in the mission accomplished, strategery, fool me once days of the George W. Bush presidency, everyone had a great time making fun of the way W mispronounced the word nuclear. It never mattered much to me. I say nuclear, you say nucular. Either way we're toast.

Lucy, our one-year old Sock Finder terrier absconded with a tasty argyle the other day and hid it, poorly, in her den which is under the dining room table. I had to go under there and retrieve it (who's the retriever now?), and in a flash (SWIDT?) it reminded me of the drop drills we did in elementary school.

We'd be sitting there, either doing school work or counting the minutes until we could get home and watch Engineer Bill or Sheriff John, and suddenly the teacher would yell "Drop!" We'd all hit the deck under our desks, as if that was going to prevent us from looking like one of Johnny Depp's ash trays on a Saturday night.

It's a lot like when a potential client is about to tour the agency, and the account guy yells "Look busy!" The difference is at the agency nothing changes.

Anyway, with enough nuclear bombs on submarines alone to take out the world, and the Stay-Puft dictator in North Korea shooting off his firecrackers towards Malibu, I started thinking about preparations I need to make in the event of the event.

There's this very informative website that tells how to prepare for a nuclear blast. And while there are a lot of helpful tips on it, I have a few of my own I think will come in handy should we get close to that edge.

First, get to Vegas.

For almost four decades, the U.S. Department of Energy did above-ground testing of over a thousand nuclear bombs at the Nevada Test Site just sixty-five miles northwest of Vegas.

And to no ones' surprise, Vegas did what they do best: turned the detonations into a tourist attraction.

It's where the saying, "It ain't the heat, it's the radiation." originated. My point is if they're going to drop the big one, shouldn't there be swimming pools and free drinks involved?

Who's with me?

Next, run up the credit cards.

The minute the news shows interrupt the season finale of The Bachelorette and start tossing up the Breaking News banner to report on on tensions getting higher between nuclear-armed third-world nations, and we're reaching a point of no return, reach for the credit cards.

A quick shopping spree is better than none at all, and you'll probably have a few days at least before the big boom. Those things you always wanted? Buy 'em. Enjoy 'em. Even if only for a little while.

Just because you're going to die soon in a flash of brilliant white light doesn't mean you have to do it with regrets. 82-inch flatscreen, hello?

Then, grab someone you've always wanted to kiss and plant one.

To some, the impending end of all life on earth might be the time to reflect on what your friends and family mean to you, and to tell them in a heartfelt final conversation so they can vaporize knowing how much you loved them.

Here's the thing: if they don't know by now, you really don't have time to explain it.

Instead, find someone you've always wanted to kiss, grab 'em and plant one on 'em. They'll be startled, maybe in shock to the point where they won't even know what to say. Which is when you say, "I'm so sorry. What I actually meant to do was this." Then plant another one.

Will they be mad? Maybe. Will they report you? Who cares. You can stay out of sight for a couple days until we're all gone.

Remember the part about no regrets?

Finally, remember to smile.

You don't want to look like those people from Pompeii when it's over. They were turned to stone and ash, and not a one of them looked happy about it. At least in the pictures.

If on the chance you wind up charred and not vaporized, you want to have a smile on your face when you go. It projects confidence, joy, a certain je ne sais quoi that says, "Even 500 kilotons of fissionable material can't harsh my buzz."

It lets them know you were having a party while you were here, and you're planning on a great time where you're going.

Years - and I mean a lot of years - from now, when they discover your preserved remains and see the smile, they'll wonder what you had to be so happy about at that particular moment. They'll do documentaries about you. Scholars will debate that look on your face. And if you're lucky, your remains might actually get to go on a national museum tour just like King Tut did.

And of course, on the off chance politicians somehow manage to head off the attack at the eleventh hour, you won't want to miss my next post about right ways to apologize and strategies for debt reduction.

A glowing recommendation

Summer's coming, and it's never too early to start planning that vacation.

Instead of dragging the kids to some boring, expected vacation destination with things to see and do, like Hawaii or New York, why not take them someplace they'll have memories of for a lifetime? Or a half-lifetime.

The Chornobyl Tour sounds like fun for the whole family. Just read all the glowing reviews.

Like me, I'll bet you have a lot of questions about it. I know what my first question would be, and I'm sure I know what yours is too. But—and this is the funny part—it's not the first question on the website's FAQs. That position belongs to this one about cost:

Even with the answer they give, they don't address the hidden costs. You know, things like replacement shoes, burn ointment, vomit bags—lots of vomit bags, toilet paper—lots of toilet paper, wigs and more. But I'm sure you find out about those soon enough. And as far as that top of mind question you were going to ask, don't worry, they do answer it somewhere around number 11 or 12.

Anyway, I think getting a taste of what the post-Apocalyptic landscape is like is a super idea, and especially timely now that the liar-in-chief is president and will probably nuke someplace just to distract us from the Russia story.

We'll be living in it before we know it.

Of course, Chornobyl is in Russia. So the good news is if we can wait just a bit, we'll be able to make reservations for the Precedential Suite in the new Chornobyl Trump Tower.

Don't worry about finding it. The sign is lit up around the clock.

Stuck in the middle with you

It's impressive to see the line of black, armor-shielded Chevy Suburbans (Made in America!) pull up to an event. Even if the person getting out is the so-called president and de facto racist, homophobe, misogynist, sexual predator, pathological liar, traitor and spokesperson for the white nationalist movement. And Satan.

Nonetheless, it is important that we, as Americans who love this country dearly, make sure he's greeted at each and every appearance in a way reflective and deserving of the class, elegance, judgment and maturity he brings to the most powerful office in the world. It's in that spirit I offer several examples of people giving what can only be called the most appropriate salutation for the man he is. If in fact he is a man. I hear things.

Anyway, you don't even have to see him in person to show him the respect he deserves. I give him this greeting every time I see his fat, orange face and whatever the fuck that is on his head on TV, magazine covers or in my nightmares.

Hold 'em firm and hold 'em high. This one's for you Donald.

A way out

If you follow me on Facebook, you know what was once a snarky, funny, advertising-bashing feed has turned into one long, deservedly anti-Trump rant 24/7. In light of that, this post may surprise you with its sympathetic tone.

Here's what we all know: Mr. Trump never thought he was going to win the presidency, which was fine with him because he never really wanted the job. What he wanted was publicity and his name in the papers and broadcast news everyday. Then he was going to leverage his provable popularity into a favorable deal for a Trump Network, where one can only assume you'd be able to find reruns of man-crush Sean Hannity, and yet another reboot of the Odd Couple starring Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh (SPOILER ALERT: Limbaugh's the sloppy one).

I know the nation wants a way out, and doggone it, judging from how tired he looks and incoherent his thoughts seem to be, I bet Mr. Trump does too.

I'd like to suggest he write a resignation letter, a bold, unexpectedly honest letter to the Secretary of State—who is the person who accepts that letter—and the nation, and simply explain the situation.

And because I'm a giver at heart, I'd like to offer him this draft:

Dear Mr. Secretary of State,

Well, it's been a crazy few weeks. Certainly far more active in every sense than I would've expected. Executive orders, banning Muslims, repealing Obamacare, the protests. Frankly, I'm spent.

Here's the thing: I never wanted the job. I had the kind of life many people admired. Money, beautiful wife, children I like a great deal, my own building in mid-town Manhattan. Don't forget the jet—pretty nice rolling up to runway 25 Left and seeing that baby fueled and ready.

Anyway, the point is I'm tendering my resignation as President of the United States. I believe my biggest campaign promise of bringing the nation together has been done. Mission accomplished. Have you seen those protests? You tell me the last time people were united like that. You're welcome.

Effective immediately, Mike Pence will assume the office of President. Now, Pence is not the ideal man for the job, and let's face it—I'm a tough act to follow. But he knows how government works much better than I do, and he's less likely to launch the missiles over a disagreement. I can admit it, I've got a temper. I'm working on it.

Besides, I was never going to help my base anyway. Did they really think I cared if they had jobs or not? I mean, I could hire a few of them to pull weeds on the back nine at Mar-A-Lago, but that would still leave a lot of them needing jobs.

I know the mayhem I've caused. But it was a wild ride, no? And Pence will look like a hero just for not getting everyone killed. You're welcome Mike.

I also miss Melania. She never cared for D.C. very much, and I can't blame her. I want to be back at Trump Tower, tweeting without all these people telling me not to, and not causing havoc when I say what's on my mind. Which, as you know, is subject to change even within the same sentence.

Frankly, the longer I'm here the more I recognize two things. First, who needs the aggravation? And number two, Obama handled this much better than I can. He's smart, he's calm, he's well spoken. For a guy born in Kenya, you can't do better.

So that's it. United the people. Put America first. Got Alec Baldwin a steady gig. It's time to go back to private life. Johnny, fuel Trump One for take off. Moscow, then Manhattan.

It's been tremendous people, but we're done here. God bless me, and God bless the United States of America.

Although they won't need it nearly as much now that I'm gone.

Yours truly,
President the Donald

The race is on

As of noon today, Donald Trump joined the President's Club. I know, I've been nauseous all day too. And as if that weren't enough to make you throw up like Mr. Creosote, this ignorant, unqualified, cesspool of a human being holds the fate of the entire world population in his tiny little baby hands.

Of course I speak of the nuclear codes. Boom.

This means that if someone tweets something he doesn't like, looks at him the wrong way, insults him somehow, his tiny little fuse (which came as a set with his hands) might go off. Then, with absolutely no checks or balances, he could launch a nuclear strike against them.

As if that weren't scary enough, Trump decided to raise the stakes by saying more countries should go nuclear. The more the better. With complete ignorance of policy, protocol, precedent, strategy or capability, Trump encouraged a nuclear arms race with the same tone you'd use to get people to join in a game of tag—except in this game you don't want to be it. This casual, uninformed attitude can't help but beg the question Tom Lehrer is asking in the above video.

Anyway, it's a done deal now. As I write this, Trump is at one of three inaugural balls he's attending tonight with his mail-order bride Melania, enjoying their first dance to the tune of Sinatra's "My Way."

While the rest of us are left with "Gimme Shelter."

Annie was wrong

I don't know if you've heard, but tomorrow is the inauguration of the 45th President of the United States.

Unfortunately, much to the dismay of most of the civilized world, and over half and rising of voters here in America, it seems that in this election cycle, in what can only be described as a freak accident, Donald Trump will be sworn in to the highest, most powerful office in the world.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Tomorrow. That's when it all happens. I'm sorry, I want so much to share her optimism and believe Annie when she says the sun'll come out tomorrow. But I just can't find any reason to. In my heart I believe, as I imagine does every person burdened with conscious and a sense of right and wrong, that the sun won't come out tomorrow.

In fact, just the opposite.

I believe we're going to be plunged into an era of political and dictatorial darkness, where all the progress made over the last fifty or so years—certainly the last eight—will be reversed by the most mentally, intellectually, experientially, temperamentally, judgmentally and morally unqualified person to ever hold the office, along with his band of equally corrupt billionaire friends.

It's a con inside a sham inside a fraud.

The idea by his supporters that this narcissistic, money-grubbing, self-centered, thin-skinned, selfish, crass, tasteless, indecent, disgusting, offensive billionaire has any concern for them is the greatest trick of all time. But then you know what they say:

So while the sun may not come out tomorrow, protesters around the world will. I plan to join them, to be part of the resistance to the ugliness that already is the Trump administration.

With any luck, the next four years that start tomorrow will only seem like a couple months at best. And if we're really lucky, and congress and reasonable Republicans come to their senses, maybe that's all it will be.

That's when the sun'll come out again.

Bombs away

It doesn't take much to figure out what the incoming administration's foreign policy will be.

Speak loudly, in incomplete sentences that make no sense, repeat words like "tremendously" and "bigly" several times, make it sound like total gibberish and carry a big stick.

If you can lift it with those tiny baby hands.

It's clear that with this dipshit elect we're stuck with, whoever looks at us the wrong way, or tweets something he doesn't like is going to get what's coming to them. There's nothing subtle about it. It's right there in the open, almost mob-like in its approach.

"Hey Angela Merkel, noticed you didn't agree with me on Paris climate change agreement. You know, Germany's a nice country. Be a shame somethin' happened to it."

He's a humorless, thin-skinned bully and a thug. And his sons Uday and Qusay are no better.

What I find interesting is way back in 1972, whether it was a premonition, prediction or some other word that starts with a "P", Randy Newman called it. Forty-five years ago he basically laid out in song what the dipshit elect's foreign policy is going to look like.

Back then it was a funny, harmless, politically astute song with a catchy melody that had anyone who heard it singing along on the first listen.

I've seen Randy Newman many times over the years, everywhere from the Troubadour to Royce Hall at UCLA. I've always loved him, and it's still a great song.

It's just not so funny anymore.

Have the best 19 days ever!

Happy New Year! I think this one is going to be spectacularly great. I mean that. After all, it can't be any worse than 2016, amirite? Truth be told, I think 2017 will be the best year any of us can remember. All nineteen days of it.

I know, I can hear you saying, "But Jeff, aren't there 365 days in a year?" Well sure, in a normal year. But 2017 isn't going to be a normal year. For starters, our dipshit elect is going to be sworn in on January 20th. Which coincidentally, I believe, is the day the world as we know it will end.

We already know, and he confirms it on a daily basis, that he will be the most mentally, emotionally and morally unqualified person ever to hold the office of President of the United States. If anything good is going to happen before he gets us into a nuclear war with China, sinks the stock market, destroys the environment and makes the air unbreathable, it's going to happen in the first nineteen days of the year.

So my recommendation is live it up. Go to Vegas, fly to Paris, pour gas on the credit cards, kiss whoever's there at the moment, drive fast (I mean even faster), eat badly (I mean even worse) and get ready to go out with a big, fat, toothless, trailer-trash smile on your face.

And if for some odd, unexpected reason—a speedy impeachment (please, please, please) or an act of God (this is the prayer to answer)—he's removed from office quickly and we all manage to continue on with our lives, don't even give a second thought to the many acts of complete abandon, ribaldry and debasement you just committed.

Decency, truth or consequences for your actions won't be coming back for at least another fifty years.